


to dust, to gold

by words-writ-in-starlight (Gunmetal_Crown)



Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Aftermath, Gen, Post-Canon, Rampant Speculation, Valedictorian Warren Peace, i don't KNOW folks, i wrote this stuff four years ago and swore up and down i'd put it on ao3 and then forgot, this is just The Warren Peace Hour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26467762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gunmetal_Crown/pseuds/words-writ-in-starlight
Summary: The school falls out of the sky, and on Monday, they all go back anyway.
Comments: 22
Kudos: 64





	1. back to school, pt i

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot to put these on AO3 for four years! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Anyway I rewatched Sky High yesterday and remembered that I love Warren Peace with a love both true and pure, so here, take these vignettes about Warren's life post-movie. Also my Tumblr inbox is a hellscape beyond salvaging but I did find a mostly-finished additional piece that never made it online at all so I'll finish that and throw it in here as a bonus. I did not have a beta when I wrote these and I do not have one now, so anything that missed my cursory edit is there forever.
> 
> Also the title is obviously from a Fall Out Boy song because _(gestures at Warren)_ but it's from a more recent one because Centuries was so excellent for him that I couldn't pass it up.

They still have to go back to school, is the thing.

Homecoming was the end of the world, sort of, and then it’s Monday and they get up and walk to the bus and get on board like it’s any other day.

“High school stops for no man, baby,” Meilin Peace had said on Sunday, for the handful of minutes that she was home before she had to get to work again, and she kissed Warren on the cheek, tentative. “I’m so proud of you, Warren.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he’d said quietly, and she’d brushed his hair back from his face, combed her fingers through it to make the red strands fall evenly. He’d held very still while she did it, sitting at the kitchen table, and she kissed him on the forehead before she walked away. It’s the only way she’s ever able to do it, if she’s standing and he’s sitting, because Warren takes after his father, and not his petite mother.

But so now it’s Monday and Warren has been at school for all of about a minute, and he’s already tired of it.

A fair portion of the school is taped off for repairs–-a classroom shredded by vines, lockers scorched or bent beyond hope of salvage–-but honestly that’s not news. The hole in the cafeteria wall took about three days to fix, and now it’s invisible, so Warren’s guessing that they prioritized other things, like, say, the anti-grav generator. 

No one can say, now, that the sidekick/hero class division is an entirely healthy one, but it’s also a month into the school year, a little late in the game to overhaul it completely. Principal Powers has never let something like the limited number of hours in a day stop her, though. Apparently she’s Figuring It Out. (It will eventually come to light that she did not run a damn thing by the school board before rewriting the concept of Sky High, and she will hang onto her job by the skin of her teeth.)

There will also be an on-staff psychologist, apparently. Warren feels like that’s a sound call, given the incidence of people going off the deep end in spectacular fashion with four years of training under their belts. 

Warren’s mostly been left alone, all day, by the time it gets to be lunch time. He’s sat through his classes and been civil with his teachers–-they’ve been civil with _him_ , which is more surprising, even Medulla, although to be fair he did save them from infancy a few days ago, so he feels like he’s earned it-–and by and large, nothing has changed. A few eyes linger on the burn marks on lockers and walls, on the sleeves of his jacket where he keeps them pulled down over the pyrokinetic’s marks on his wrists, but no one yells anything at him or picks a fight.

Warren’s too tired to lose his temper, anyway, but he appreciates it.

He sits down at a table in the cafeteria and very much intends to continue being left alone for the rest of the day.

So obviously Stronghold comes up, claps Warren on the shoulder so hard that someone else might have broken a bone, and sits down with him.

“Hey, Warren,” Stronghold says cheerfully, and stuffs a slightly limp fry in his mouth.

Warren looks up from his book. “Hey,” he says warily. “What’d’you want?”

Stronghold blinks at him like he’s speaking a foreign language, while Layla drops down, pecks a kiss on her boyfriend’s cheek, and grins at Warren like this is normal.

“I’m so glad that Principal Powers is taking steps to merge the two classes,” Layla says without preamble, as if this is a conversation she’s already been having with Warren and Stronghold. “It’s so absurd to think that no one saw the damaging effects of the way sidekicks are treated, but like, here we are, I guess. I mean, Royal Pain did a lot of damage and all, but at least she got something done in the end.”

“We’ll remember to mention you for Most Likely To Become A Super Villain at the end of the year,” Ethan says as he and Zach join the table, bumping Warren companionably with their shoulders as they jockey for a seat. “Hey, Warren, you passed Heroic History last year, right?”

“Yeah,” Zach echoes, looking at Warren with what he clearly thinks are puppy dog eyes, “you passed, right? Because, like, I can’t memorize that many people, man, and my dad’s gonna kill me if I fail. Can you believe Johnson’s still making us take a test this Friday?”

Warren feels like a deer in the headlights, past speechless. The breaking point is when Magenta sits down on his other side and takes the apple off his tray, popping it into her mouth without looking up from the notebook in her hand.

“All right,” Warren says, cutting through Layla’s outburst about the unfairness of even _having_ a Most Likely category for supervillainy and Zach’s moaning about Miss Johnson. “Are you guys screwing with me? Because seriously, Homecoming’s over, I’m _not_ going on any more dates, and I’m too tired for this shit.”

Magenta crunches her bite of apple and swallows it, staring him dead in the eye. “It’s called being friendly, dumbass,” she says, and crunches into another bite of apple.

“Yeah, man,” Zach says. “You worry too much. We got kinda used to hanging around.”

Layla smiles at him, and it’s a much more genuine thing than the slightly manic grin she kept pointing at him while they were ‘dating.’ He has to try not to twitch back when her hand reaches out to grab his arm and give him a little shake.

“We’re not screwing with you, Warren,” she says sincerely. “We just want to be friends.” She seems to realize that having her hand on his arm is freaking him out, and lets go, and Warren tries not to look frankly suspicious when she adds, “We really did get used to hanging out with you, before.”

“All right,” Warren says, failing to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

Stronghold squeaks and twitches like someone pinched him, and then he clears his throat, to get Warren’s attention. “I’m, uh. I’m having the others over for a study session tonight, since they’re having to take some hero classes now. You want to come?”

_Hell fucking no,_ Warren does not want to come and possibly has never wanted anything less. Stronghold’s gift for stupid decisions is undimmed.

“That’s a terrible idea,” Warren says.

“It’ll be fine,” Stronghold says dismissively.

“It really, really won’t.” No one seems to catch on and Warren presses a thumb into the curve of his eyebrow, against the ache that’s starting to settle there. 

“Do you have work tonight?” Layla wonders.

“You work?” Ethan asks. “Where?”

“I don’t have work tonight,” Warren says, eyes closed. “Stronghold, your parents are going to have a stroke if you bring me over.”

“They were fine when they met you the other night,” Stronghold says obstinately, and Christ, Warren doesn’t know if he’s just genuinely that oblivious or what, but it turns out he’s not too tired to get angry after all. 

Jetstream had thanked him that night, quietly, stepped aside and told him that she’d heard that he got the others out of the gym–and she’d been careful to do it while the Commander was talking to Mr. Boy, too, while the others were distracted looking at the award. The word ‘hero’ had not been discussed.

Yeah, Warren’s pretty sure that helping to save the school doesn’t actually tip the scales very much in his favor, comparatively speaking.

Warren takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, counting to eight on both, and opens his eyes.

“Fine,” he says. It’s a spiteful thing to do, really, agreeing. It’s self-destructive and stupid and probably going to end with him getting thrown through another wall, sooner or later. His mom will probably be disappointed in him.

He did kind of like having the others around during the disaster of Homecoming, having people to back him up for once, though.

“All right,” he says, and drops his hand. “I guess we’ll see how it goes.”


	2. back to school, pt ii

_“_ Hey, Warren,” Layla says, curled up on the floor with her textbook on her lap and her head against the couch arm, “this section on civilian evacuation--does it just figure there are EMTs on scene or what?”

“Yeah,” Warren says, and he tries to keep his voice steady. “They, uh. With only one or two heroes on the scene plus maybe a sidekick, they figure.” He forces himself to shrug carelessly. “Not a lot of spare hands.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Layla declares. “What if it’s too dangerous for civilians to get close?”

“Then it’s the hero’s job to end the fight as quickly as possible,” Ethan says.

“I’m not circling that answer.” Layla scowls and stubbornly circles the third answer down, the one that says _provide medical assistance to civilian,_ rather than the first one, which says _continue the fight_. Then she starts scribbling a note in the margin.

“Johnson’s gonna dock you,” Zack sings from where he’s sprawled on the carpet, chin propped on his hands three inches from the page of his textbook.

Warren looks down at his own textbook, open to a page about recommended combat tactics in an urban setting. He hasn’t absorbed a single word in the past hour. Besides, indoor combat tactics for pyrokinetics are generally pretty simple: _don’t._ He doesn’t need an advanced technical explanation of that.

It’s been a lifetime since he allowed Stronghold, reluctantly, to drag him inside. He’s never been—well, no, that’s a lie, but it’s been a while since he was this tense. Every time Magenta’s boot knocks against the leg of her chair, he twitches like he’s been shocked, and he knows at least Layla has noticed. Probably Magenta, too, because she’s obviously _trying_ to keep her leg still and looks a little guilty when she can’t manage it.

No one else is in the house. Apparently the Strongholds Senior, with whatever their day jobs are, get home at five. Warren would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered trying to arrange a crisis.

“Why do we have to learn Super Biology,” Stronghold asks, one cheek on _his_ book. He’s been trying to do reading too, while the others try to play catchup on Hero Tactics 101, but he seems bored, or, possibly, distracted by the _incredibly evident tension_. Warren thinks that might be giving him too much credit.

Listen. Warren can appreciate that Stronghold is fundamentally a nice enough guy whose greatest downfall is naively assuming that everyone else is equally well-intentioned, and still acknowledge that he has the emotional intelligence of an overripe pear.

“So that we can identify what powers a villain might have before we get, you know, lit on fire or something,” Ethan offers. Then he pauses and glances at Warren. “No, uh, offense intended.” Warren cocks an eyebrow at him and Ethan looks back down at his homework. “So,” he says in a slightly higher register, “anyway, those tactics, good stuff, right?”

“Pyros don’t look different,” Zack says. He stops, considers. “Uh, do they?”

“I work four shifts a week and have homework. You honestly think I have the time to dye my hair?” Warren says dryly. He remembers with sharp and unpleasant clarity when the red streaks and the marks on his forearms had appeared after the first time he powered up, and even more clearly the way his mother couldn’t look him in the eye for a week and a half. When he first went to Sky High, Boomer didn’t even ask his name—everyone who had known Baron Battle knew that his son looked just like him.

“It does that on its own?” Zack asks, sounding enthralled.

“Do not touch my hair, Glowstick,” Warren warns, and Zack drops his hand, sulking. 

“I _wish_ my hair turned colors on its own,” Magenta sighs, flicking a few purple strands behind her ear. “You wouldn’t believe how long it takes to bleach it.”

Outside, there’s a voice on a phone, and Warren misses a few more sentences as he tenses up again, like a guitar string overtightened and ready to snap. The door opens and Jetstream—Mrs. Stronghold calls out to her son over the Commander—Mr. Stronghold’s chatter.

“Yeah, Mom, we’re in here,” Stronghold calls out, relaxed and easy, and Warren stares at the page of his textbook under his palm while he tries his damndest not to set anything on fire. Or bolt.

So Warren doesn’t see their faces when they walk into the living room and see him sitting there in the chair, in their home, with their son and his friends. He hears, though, the way that Mrs. Stronghold’s cheerful greeting cuts off, and a _snap_ of breaking plastic as the buzz of the phone dies, and the edge of the page starts to curl—not quite singed, just warping under the heat of Warren’s stare.

“Well,” Mrs. Stronghold says in a forcibly light tone. “You guys all look busy, do you want something to eat? Anything to drink?”

“No, thanks, Mrs. Stronghold,” Layla says when it becomes clear that no one else is going to answer. “I think we’re okay. We’re trying to catch up on the hero class stuff.”

“That’s right, I heard the two classes were being combined. How’s that been going?”

“We’re only a day in,” Will says, sitting up. “And like half the morning was assemblies. Everything’s still kind of a mess, they cancelled a bunch of our classes while they try to figure out what to do.” He pauses for a moment. “Warren’s been helping the others get through the freshman hero class stuff, he did it all last year.”

Mrs. Stronghold takes a beat. “That’s…great.”

“Gym is indefinitely suspended,” Magenta adds in a nervous rush, parroting Principal Powers’ careful phrasing. “Until they figure out something besides Save the Citizen that doesn’t depend on a hero/sidekick match up.”

“They want us to form teams, I think,” Will says. “Since the six of us worked well together.”

There’s another pause and another _crack_ of plastic as a superstrong hand closes too tight on a cell phone. 

“That’s great, baby,” Mrs. Stronghold says with a brittle smile. “We’ll let you kids get back to work. Steve, let’s go.”

Warren sees her grab her husband’s elbow and steer him firmly out of the room, in the corner of his vision, and as they reach the door, Mr. Stronghold calls, “Will, come here, we want to talk to you for a minute.”

“ _Steve_.”

“Come on, Josie, I just–”

Warren’s open textbook bursts into flames and he slams it shut to smother them as the others yelp and flail back. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“Jesus, Warren,” Zack says, clutching his knee where he crashed into the table. “I think I broke my leg.”

“You didn’t _break_ your _leg_ ,” Magenta says. She does a good job of pretending that she didn’t almost tip her chair over in surprise, and a better job of pretending that she meant to drop her textbook. “You’re just a wimp.”

“Is your textbook okay?” Layla asks, kneeling up to get a look at it. “I mean, like, overall.”

There’s a clear outline of soot where his fingers rested against the cover, holding it, but it looks like the damage was mostly limited to the chapter he was reading. Warren nods, feeling like his muscles have turned to stone, creaking in protest as he inclines his head. He looks up, then, finally, at the sound of someone clapping their hands sharply.

Covered by the chatter, Mr. and Mrs. Stronghold have been arguing in whispers, while Ethan reformed his body and Will picked up the remains of his shattered pencil. It doesn’t look like there’s been a clear winner of the debate, but regardless, Mr. Stronghold seems determined to say something. He’s the one who clapped, and now Warren and the others are all staring at him with varying degrees of apprehension.

“Will,” Mr. Stronghold says in a very calm tone. “We need to have a word with you. _Now_.”

Will sets his jaw like a fucking moron, doesn’t stand up, and says, “About what, Dad?”

There’s a moment of really ugly silence as the Commander stares down his son. Will’s the one who breaks it.

“He saved the school,” Will says. “Just like the rest of us. It doesn’t matter who his dad was.”

Mr. Stronghold’s jaw goes tight and hard and he says, “It absolutely _does_ matter, son. I know you like to see the best in people, but–”

“Warren’s a hero,” Will says stubbornly. 

“He tried to _kill_ you!” Mr. Stronghold barks, pointing sharply at Warren. Warren would give anything to have the ability to teleport right now, the ability to be somewhere _not here_ , and he can’t remember why he agreed to this but it was a bad idea and he was right that it was a bad idea and he’s never going to let Stronghold live it down.

Right, that’s why he agreed. It seems like a shoddy reason, in retrospect, and not exactly worth the consequences. At least he’s durable, he thinks with grim amusement, it would kill his mother if he actually came home hurt after this.

“It was a misunderstanding.”

Mrs. Stronghold puts a hand on her husband’s chest and presses him back a step, and he actually goes after a moment of resistance, and she gives Will a serious look. “Will, you have to understand that you’re—on probation, when it comes to your friends.”

Will pulls a face, but doesn’t give an inch. “Fair enough,” he says. “Probably had it coming. But Warren is a good guy and his dad’s not his fault.”

“Besides, Mrs. Stronghold,” Layla says with a gimlet stare, like a teacher about to whip out their detention-giving privileges, “you can’t write Warren off just because he has the same powers as his father. There are plenty of supervillains who can fly, you know.”

“Baron Battle–” the Commander starts, but Mrs. Stronghold interrupts him.

“No one’s getting written off, Layla,” she says, and it’s probably meant to be soothing, but it comes off as a little condescending. Warren's experience suggests that it's a common problem with these two. “Steve and I are just—concerned.”

“Right, because the last time Will brought someone home she tried to turn you both into babies and brainwash you,” Zack says with his accustomed tact. “But seriously, Mrs. S, Warren came through clutch when we needed him to.”

Mr. Stronghold scowls. “How do you think supervillains _start_ , Zack? Battle ‘came through clutch’ for plenty of heroes when they called, and then–”

“Stop,” Warren says, and it brings the room to a halt like he’s just dropped a firecracker. He just—really doesn’t want to listen to a litany of his father’s sins. He’s not up for it today. He’s still exhausted from the weekend, he’s in uncomfortably new territory with this whole ‘friends’ thing, and he’s deeply sick of being ignored. He’s done, and he knows the scowl on his face probably shows it, because Mr. Stronghold stiffens. “Listen,” Warren goes on, reaching down to set his scorched book in his backpack, “I knew this was a bad idea. I can just leave.”

“Sounds great,” Mr. Stronghold says, while his wife offers a half-hearted, “That’s not necessary.”

“Warren, sit down,” Will says, jumping to his feet. “He hasn’t done anything wrong, Mom,” he says, moving to stand between his parents and Warren. “He _hasn’t_ ,” he insists over her voice. “Warren’s a good guy, our fight was just a misunderstanding, and he _saved your life_ , Mom, you can’t pretend he didn’t. Didn’t you talk to him at the dance?”

Will doesn’t look stubborn anymore, just frustrated and a little confused. Like it had never even occurred to him that this conversation would go past _it doesn’t matter who his dad is_ , like he’s never seen his parents like this before. Meilin Peace is a great mother, all things being equal, but Warren remembers the freefall feeling of dismay when she couldn’t look him in the eye without seeing his father, the year when she stopped touching his hair because the red scared her. It always matters who his dad is. He sympathizes with Stronghold, a little, but this argument is just drawing out the discomfort for everyone and it’s not worth it.

“Stronghold,” Warren says, standing and picking up his bag, “let it go.”

“No,” Will says, clenching his jaw again, his fists opening and closing as if he’s looking for the right words. As ever, they’re beyond him, and Layla steps in.

“You know,” she says, standing up and coming to Warren’s other side, like he needs backup or saving or God knows what, her arms crossed and eyes narrow. “I always really admired you both, when I was a kid, because you were _heroes_ , you know what I mean? So I guess I’m just a little disappointed that you’re not even going to give Warren a chance to be someone other than his father.”

“Not necessary, hippie,” Warren says.

“I think it is,” she says with bulldog determination. “Warren, you drove here, right?” He doesn’t know why she’s asking him that, she knows he drove here, but he nods. “Great. Since you’re going to be heading out, how about we go study somewhere else. I need you to walk me through that Mad Science homework again, I still don’t understand the difference between rays and beams.”

“It’s fucking simple,” Warren says, frustrated and suddenly entirely distracted from the immediate problem, because he’s explained this _twice_ to _everyone_ and they are _still helpless_. Part of it’s probably that Medulla couldn’t really be bothered to teach if his life depended on it and therefore all of class is practice, not theory, but _what the hell_. “Beams are light oriented and work better for neurological effects like mind control, rays have physical effects like freezing. Beams need to be connected in series, rays usually need parallel wiring with a few resistors to keep the wiring from frying itself. If you switch the wiring, they might blow up. It’s _not that hard_.”

Layla turns to shoot a smug look at Mr. and Mrs. Stronghold. “So, like, we can just go to Warren’s place for homework,” she tells Will. “Right, Warren?”

Warren would really rather not. Layla and Will are both so at home here in this house, even the others are relaxed and at ease with the designer furniture and the high ceilings and the decorative vases and the color coordination. Warren’s always been aware that his mother isn’t well off, and they’re a little better off now than when he was a kid, but his apartment is…not this. He’s had his coat for three years, since he had to roll the cuffs twice in order to use his hands instead of just once, and his boots for two, they’re starting to pinch. He’s never had to worry about where his next meal would come from, but that’s different from inviting a bunch of well-off kids from the suburbs to come commentate on his living situation.

But…his mom would be so happy to see him bring friends over. Friends in the plural, even.

“Sure,” he says reluctantly. “My mom won’t be home until late, but she wouldn’t mind.”

“Great,” Layla says. “Everyone get your stuff. We can do takeout for dinner.”

“I can cook,” Warren says, even more reluctantly. He foresees this being a problem, but he isn't up to eating food he doesn't trust right now.

“Oooh, exciting, Warren can cook,” Magenta drawls sarcastically, but she’s packing her books away nonetheless. “En flambe, I bet.”

“I was just gonna make fried rice.”

“Make me a pot of fried rice big enough to sit in,” Zack says in the tone of someone in reach of Nirvana, clutching his notes to his chest in rhapsody. “Like. So much fried rice, man.”

It's nice being right all the time. However. “I’m not doing that.”

“Warren, _please_ , man, I’m begging you.”

“Not happening, Glowstick.” 

There’s a sigh and Warren looks away from Zack to Mrs. Stronghold, trying not to look guilty—he doesn’t have any reason to be guilty. Warren hasn’t done anything wrong except try to help some freshmen with their homework and light a book on fire by accident and, well, the same thing he’s always been doing wrong.

“Stop,” she says, and gives Mr. Stronghold such a forbidding look that he retreats a step. “We’re sorry. You’re right, Layla, that was unfair. Warren,” she says, turning to face him squarely, and Warren looks flatly back at her. “You’re welcome to stay for dinner here.”

“I’d rather not,” Warren says frankly. Because—fuck her. He doesn’t need to be polite about this. He’s tired of this. She looks about as shocked as if he’d slapped her, and looks to Will as if for support.

“I’ll be home later,” Will says instead, not looking at her. “And if you two get it together, we can do our homework here tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you too want to prompt me to write something too long to leave on Tumblr that I will inevitably forget to put on AO3, [come say hi](https://words-writ-in-starlight.tumblr.com/) I guess.


End file.
